When my shaking ten-year-old begged me to hurry home, I had no idea a nightmare was waiting. I raced inside to find my husband and child cold and motionless on the living room rug. Paramedics rushed in, but the lead officer grabbed my arm, shaking his head. “Ma’am, this wasn’t an accident…”

It did not smell like the home I had meticulously built. It did not smell of the lemon-oil furniture polish I obsessively rubbed into the baseboards, nor did it carry the lingering, roasted scent of Mark’s morning French press. It lacked the earthy, grass-stained aroma of Leo’s athletic gear.

The air was heavy. Viscous. It smelled terrifyingly sweet.continue reading …